Secondhand Addiction
It’s the way he smells; like old cigarettes and that spicy, warm smell that is unique only to him. I could get lost in that smell, intoxicated and happy, could lose my mind and be forever trapped in it. It's the way he lights up, opening and closing the box of matches with a practiced impatience that drives me mad. I love the feeling of anticipation dotting my skin with goosebumps as he strikes the match. The sound of the match flaring and the glow on his skin from the dying light make me smile every time.It’s a visual feast as well as an auditory one as he closes his eyes, taking a drag deep enough to burn though half the cigarette, hollowing out his cheeks as he sighs his contentment out in the way of a dragon, puffing a poisonous smoke cloud that curls around him, adding a little more mystique to his deceptively fragile beauty.In that moment, he is Byronesque, all pale skin, dark hair, emerald eyes, sinfully sweet intent, and dangerous, intricately tattooed beauty. He could leave Dorian Gray in the dust, inciting the innocent to sacrifice themselves on his altar of sin, sating his lust in any way he might choose, as he enjoys their surrender and gets off on their condemnation.It’s not the nicotine that does it for me. It's just him, the look on his face, the sound of his sigh. But it’s a secondhand addiction all the same, and I don’t want to be free. Let me die in bliss with my secondhand addiction in my nose and on my lips. Let me burn for him forever.
CalleighCaineWriter
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